Guardian of the Great Story
by In Christ Alone
Summary: Because we all know Susan's story didn't end with 'Prince Caspian', nor, we know, did she 'forget Narnia'. So, what happened? A set of gruesome murders that reenacts legends of Narnia connects Susan's new life to that of her past, and sets in motion events that will force Caspian and herself to tear the very laws that make Narnia. This, my friends, is the untold story of Narnia.
1. Introduction

_In secret we met, In silence I grieve,_

_That thy heart could forget, Thy spirit deceive_

_If I should meet thee, After long years,_

_How should I greet thee? With silence and tears._

_~Bryon_

* * *

**Narnia, Unknown Date**

**At the Gateway**

His throat closed as the gateway did the same, washing away the image of his friends like watercolors on a canvas. Washing away the last visage of the Pevensies.

Or more accurately, Susan.

He had no strong feelings: just confusion and the general want to impress her. But that last move- the kiss- that confused him.

And now, as suddenly as his walls were broken down, they were whisked away into some land he knew nothing of. Away with a lady.

His brow seemed furrowed the following weeks as he adjusted to his kingly place, and his eyes troubled as he viewed his kingdom.

Though he would not know _how_ troubled he would be.

Because he was about to learn the truth about Susan's disappearance.

* * *

**Present day- 2013**

**Trinity College, Dublin**

**Ireland**

His footsteps were light as he jogged down the staircase into the classroom, the college kids leaving in a whoosh around him with rustling papers and noisy dispositions. He slid in between them all, fixing the hood about his face to obscure his features. What seemed to be an empty desk revealed itself to have already been claimed, but he grabbed the notebook anyway and continued walking, purposely re-directing his path to cross in front of the teacher's desk.

As she stood from her bent place behind the desk, presumably organizing papers, he gently nudged the stapler on the edge of the desk to fall onto the hardwood, causing a loud crash to resound through the room. She spun around as he stared defiantly at her.

'Well? Are you going to pick it up?"

He stared.

She placed her hands on her hips, giving him an incredulous glare. "May I help you?"

Again, he stayed silent, dark brown eyes roving down her frame in scrutiny.

She huffed. "Never mind. Just go. I have papers to grade and essays to review and…"She waved her hand at him in dismissal. "Go."

With that she turned back to her filing cabinet and continued pulling out drawers, the metal squeal the only sound in the room. But he stayed, staring.

He could hardly believe it was her. But he couldn't deny it. The red hair surely threw off his perception, but the eyes… the eyes were the same. The same sparkling brown that bore into him so deeply. The same ruby lips that seemed to always be curved in some sensuous smile. The way her hands landed on her hips, the way her left foot was cocked as if as light as a leaf…

It had to be her.

He cleared his throat. "Miss?"

It came out as more of a question than he intended, but it got her attention anyway. She spun around, a kind light to her eyes that died instantly upon alighting on his still-there form, only to be replace with an annoyed curiosity.

"May I help you, sir? I thought I asked you to leave."

"Is it Ashley Webb, now?" he said abruptly.

She looked surprised. "I'm…sorry?"

"Do you remember, all those years ago? Our battles?"

She gave a nervous, confused smile, and a wary sparkle broke into her eyes. "Ah, I'm sorry, you must have the wrong person…"

"_Narnia_, Susan. _Narnia_."

She gave him a glare as her voice rose. "Who _are_ you?"

He grumbled and jerked the tip of the hood back, revealing his face.

She gasped.

"C…_Caspian_?"

* * *

**Because all of us Suspian fans know how badly the movies ended this awesome romance... and then hearts are broken as we read the book and realized Susan 'is no longer a friend of Narnia'. Here I am, my first venture into the Narnia FF world, to put a new spin on why Susan never landed in Aslan's Country. **  
**And what she really ended up doing after 'Prince Caspian', instead of forgetting Narnia.**

**By the way, the theme song for this story is 'Princess Toyotomi' by Celtic Woman... Seriously, it sounds like it was written for this story. I love it. It could fit for just about any fantasy story. Link is in my profile. **


	2. Our Story Begins

**Set between Prince Caspian and Voyage of the Dawn Treader  
**

* * *

**Chapter 1**

**Our Story Begins**

**Narnia Forests**

**Unknown ****Time **

Leaves crunched and crinkled softly underfoot as Caspian rolled his leather-booted foot forward along the damp leaves. Roots protruded from the moist ground in his wake and riddled the path before him as he stalked quietly through the lush forest. His dark eyes slid from tree to tree in search of something, and his brown overcoat seemed to make him bland in with the surrounding, allowing the eyes to slide right past him as if he never existed. Silence seemed to cloak everything: no birds whispered in the branches, no animals darted between the trunks of the trees. Everything seemed to be holding its breath, waiting for Caspian to make his move.

"Ha!" he spun with a yell, clashing blades with seemingly nothing, yet one could hear the ringing of the metal-on-metal contact. He continued, at times slashing, diving, flinching and driving, his blade a whirlwind of silver. The fight continued for some time, with the yells of both Caspian and his invisible opponent. They moved fluidly, curving around trees and jumping over roots, waiting to see who would fail first.

Both froze suddenly, with blades outstretched (or Caspian's, unless you could see the other) and smiled widely.

Now that they were still, you could, if you squinted, see the small, coffee-colored fur balanced on the root underfoot, his long tailed curled around the bark and his red plume settling back down atop his head. His little mouse arm was holding the smallest sword to Caspian's throat, as was Caspian to his.

"Good match, my lord!" Reepicheep said, bowing majestically and rolling his sword with the flick of a wrist. "We have tied on rare occasion, I believe, and none of them often. You are better focused today, sire."

Caspian nodded, his breaths only slightly louder as he slid the weapon back into its scabbard. "I have been…trying, Reepicheep. I'm doing better."

Seeing the mouse's knowing look, and not liking its connotations, he shrugged. "Being a king is taxing business, much less after a war. I have never been so strained."

Reepicheep's lip curled into a smirk, whiskers and fur alike. "Yes, my liege. But of course. What else would I have been thinking of?"

The young king shrugged again as he leisurely stepped over some roots, walking back to the castle. "I'm afraid I could never imagine what you are thinking, Reep. You think far too broadly to follow."

The mouse agreed with a slight nod of his head, following.

They quickly made their way to the castle, its spires looming high in the afternoon light. In the far distance one could see- and, maybe hear, if you strained to do so- the construction underway at Cair Paravel. Months ago, Caspian had decided that it certainly deserved to be rebuilt, if not for use, at least for the honor of the Kings and Queens of old. Though he certainly intended to use it. Even, perhaps, he could put a larger courtyard to entertain more dances, with a larger garden-

"You're Majesty-"

-And make sure it would go in a large circle around the castle, filled with all kinds of native Narnian plants-

"You're Majesty!"

Caspian jerked, shaking out of his musings and glancing down at his friend, who stood impatiently at this boot, one hand on his hip and his tail twitching in annoyance.

"Sorry. I was thinking about Cair Paravel. It is a common subject on my mind lately."

"Hm. Yes, well, no disrespect meant sire, but you have the summer solstice festival to attend tonight, so I would suggest we _actually_ _go inside now_, and oversee the preparations."

Caspian nodded, pursing his lips. "Ah… yes, that would be prudent. Shall we?"

He bowed, gesturing the mouse indoors as the arching, oak doors were swung wide to permit entrance. Reepicheep looked at him incredulously before scampering far behind the King.

"I shall never, _ever_, my King, allow _you_ to walk _in_, after _me_."

Caspian chuckled and straightened, thanking the guards as he passed in. The wide expanse of polished marble flooring stretched out before him, with servants mopping and scrubbing, and decorators tacking vines of honey suckles to the walls. Caspian smiles widely, skirting the puddles and trying his hardest to leave little dirt from his forest venture. What little dirt he did track in was subtly mopped up as he tapped the shoulder of a young servant girl, causing her to turn the opposite direction as he swiped the mop from her finger tip, wiped the dirt, and replaced it in her delicately stretched fingers. She gasped upon seeing him, trying to bow deeply but losing her footing on the slippery marble. He caught her hand, flashed a smile, and was gone in a blur, only the pattering of a mouse and a blushing servant girl behind him.

As Reepicheep scampered up the railing of the stairway Caspian was jogging up, he scowled.

"You must stop that."

"Stop what?" he glanced out of the corner of his eye.

"Stop flirting with all the girls. It is un-kingly and, if you do not intend to choose a queen, it is quite cruel."

"Is that what they think I am doing?"

Reepicheep looked flabbergasted. "Ugh!" he stole a breath as he raced to keep pace with the King's long legs. "Is that what they think you are doing? That's what you're doing!"

Caspian shrugged. "I mean not to lead anyone on. Nor flirt. I simply… like to make the women of the palace's employ smile; they seem a forlorn bunch. And for the rest of the women of the kingdom I have no such pretenses: half are not human and the other I have no interest in. Is there anything wrong with wanting people to smile?"

Reepicheep huffed. "Is there anything wrong with non-human?"

Caspian flashed his charming half-grin. "It would be a little odd to have a relationship with a beaver, now wouldn't it? And nigh impossible with someone like the leaf woman of the cherry trees. No, I need human for merely a slight feel of normal."

During this conversation Caspian had made his way up to his study, resting his hand on the ornate door knob as he finished his sentence.

Reepicheep shrugged. "At least you thought it out. I was hoping you wouldn't find us revolting."

Caspian seemed appalled. "Nay! I find you all to be the finest of people, as far as the 'people' term can reach, but 'creatures' sounds cold. You are all far superior in my opinion than my own people."

A distant bell struck the hour, and Caspian turned in surprise.

"It seems, my friend, I must take my leave to prepare myself. You might also. I doubt the kitchen help would appreciate muddied prints in the ball room."

Reepicheep nodded in agreement and bowed away, turning the corner and still in his respectful position, causing Caspian to chuckle.

He twisted the iron door knob, the intricate gears and turns clicking out of place as he set foot in the cool room. The décor was set up much like his study on the _Dawn Treader_, with the columned shelves and paintings on display. A prominent bed, large enough for two (it seemed a hint from the maids when he found his bed had been replaced with a two-fold size), with deep crimson blankets embroidered with a lion's face. Large floor-to-ceiling windows faced the north side of kingdom, letting in the characteristic light of a bright afternoon. The hardwood flooring was a honey tan, the grain and pattern directing the sight to the obvious centerpiece of the room.

A modest mantle piece adorned an equally modest fireplace. And, atop the dark paneled mantle, lay a beautiful golden bow, with ivory tips and a beautiful red grip of Celtic knot-work. An ivory quiver sat beside it, its engravings winding upwards along to the rim and giving way to the prominence of the red-fletched arrows.

Caspian sighed as he walked, as if in a trance, toward the set, his eyes roving down the wood as if eating the sight and the memories between. His finger, tanned and rough, slid down the smooth grain and followed its circles until finding the familiar divots and scratches. He would oft sit here at night, in the glow of the fireplace, and feel these wounds, and relive each one he witnessed. The battles, the rescues… All winding him in her web. And then, in one last loving motion, she left him.

Not that he blamed her, but still. It made him hurt.

He sighed and stepped back, taking one last look along the weapons. He was about to turn, when he saw something that made his pause.

There were only sixteen arrows. There had been seventeen.

His brow furrowed in confusion as he lifted the quiver, inspecting it deeply. No other signs of misuse were apparent, and he shrugged it off, assuming that he, mayhaps, had just miscounted all these years in his imaginings.

But, even as he stripped his leather jerkin off and replaced his white blouse with well-pressed tunic, he continued to think about the missing weaponry, and the significance of this particular piece of weaponry. And with these thoughts came a distinct feeling of foreboding that would not be shaken off, no matter the joyous atmosphere of the summer festival.

* * *

**University of Pennsylvania**

**August 1942**

"He is rather handsome, is he not, my Susan?"

Susan laughed and nodded, amused by her friend's mockingly prim tones, and looking down her outstretched finger at the young soldier entering the restaurant. He glanced bashfully across the street to them, smiling half-heartedly and sliding in, his olive green uniform disappearing behind the milkshake poster on the door. She turned back to her friend as she primped her hair demurringly.

"Oh, look at me; I am Missus Savannah, using my sweet charm on all men who are mere mortals beneath my gaze." Declan mimicked the aforementioned girl, jutting her hips out and pursing her lips snootily. Declan, one of Susan's new friends, was the typical, full-blooded Irish. Her hair was red and long, curly beyond reason and never tamed. Though Declan complained often, it seemed to suit her personality: growing up with not only a boy's name, and the last remaining threads of discrimination against the Irish, she grew up head-strong and outspoken, always ready for either a party or a fight. People tended to notice her, and well they should, or she would definitely make sure her presence was known. Many an enemy was made amongst her seniors as she carved her niche in the world dominated by men and only men: the quite new field of forensics.

Susan shook her head and smiled, watching her friend strut down the sidewalk in front of the university, the mid-morning light glancing off her curls and the books under her arm. Her mint green dress accentuated her features and exposed, almost scandalously so, from the knees down, until meeting the ground in matching heels, tied with a cream-colored bow.

Declan glanced back at her. "Well? Are you coming? It is almost eight. Class starts soon."

As if to punctuate her sentence, as nearby church-bell rang, it's peal echoing through the town like a melancholy cry.

As if pulled by strings, the crowd of young students surged forward, with the swish of skirts and rustle of vest jackets. The sight made a rather colorful mosaic: the latest color palette in the fashion industry was obviously known here, with the vibrant colors of earth filling the lobby. Reds, browns and green were randomly dotted with the colors of flowers. Heels clicked up the marble lobby and around the halls as Susan and Declan flowed along with the wave of the crowd.

Susan caught a glimpse of Peter's blonde head as he lightly shoulder-nudged his friend, knocking into a passing girl. The bashful friend of his blushed profusely and stared at his feet while Peter laughed uproariously.

She rolled her eyes and brushed a swatch of hazelnut hair from her cheek, speeding her walk as Declan's long legs carried her into the depths of the crowd. As the waves of people closed in on her friend, she struggled to pull through, straining her head up to see around the shoulder's of broad shouldered boys vying for her attention.

"Declan!" She grunted as she dodged more people, earning chuckles and sniffs alike as she slid in the small breakings of the crowd.

It seemed to grow so much thicker as she neared her classroom door, even as cries of alarm started rising from the individuals. The gasps and screams soon escalated and a man shouted for the police, rushing and pushing through the crowd with an ashen face.

Susan dodged through the tunnel he had created in his rush, forgoing politeness and bodily pushing people out of the way as soon as she heard the unmistakable heavy Irish lilt of Declan as she yelled her name. She rushed faster and faster as the sounds of annoyance plummeted into an eerie silence.

And then wished she had not rushed so fast to see…this.

Declan sat heavily on her knees, breathing rapidly with an ashen face and wide eyes, staring at the scene before her and at her hands, coated in deep maroon blood. The blood puddled in a sticky trail across the threshold of the doorway and into the classroom, ending only a few feet from the doorway under the grotesquely posed cadaver of their Professor. His balding head and short, stumpy body lay limply on the floor, his blank face and wide eyes pointing upward. His arms were pierced through with sharpened wooden dowels that tore through the wooden floorboards and up into his navy blue suit sleeves. His arms were bent into a cowering pose, fingers splayed out and supported with sewing needles jammed into the knuckles of each phalange. A lion's mane theater prop was wrapped securely around his neck and a golden crown placed on top, as well as a silver wand resting on his chest. Blood smeared his cheeks in long, finger-like streaks, and his white dress shirt was almost unrecognizable as its original color.

Susan gaped as she knelt beside Declan, noticing the blood coating the outer door handle, explaining the amount on Declan's hands.

A small squeak sounded from her side as Declan gasped. Susan wrapped her arms securely around her light framed and pulled her up, keeping a calm disposition about her. She hoped Declan would absorb it: she seemed on the verge of collapsing.

Police flooded the room, blocking off the doorway and shooing everyone away, but pulling Declan and herself to the side for examination and questioning. Susan answered them all calmly and honestly, glancing worriedly from the room to her friend.

Because, inside, she was just as- if not more- freaked out than Declan. Because lying in the heart of her Professor jutted one very worrying thing.

Her Narnian arrow, its fletching flaming red, stood proudly against the murk and grime, like a beacon for trouble.

Somehow, someone had gotten her arrow from Narnia and placed it here, obviously for her to see.


	3. Wasteland Manifesto

**Chapter 2**

**Lantern Waste, Narnia**

His steps are jolting and fragile, rattle and cracking like the frost underfoot. Each step crushes, he imagines, another hope. Another dream.

_Crunch_.

One booted foot steps forward, breaking the frozen grass like they are made of glass. The snow that still flies, reminiscent of the winter age gone by, litters his black trench coat with white speckles and turns it into a sort of mosaic. Where they land on his skin is another matter, as they blend, perfectly at home, with his pale hue.

Any Narnians who had the unfortunate luck to see him- and not many did- they were quite wary about him. With good reason, too: he seemed to resemble the White Witch in many ways. From his blood-red lips, twisted in a cynical smile, to his paper white skin that seemed it could tear like parchment, he was a disturbing sight.

That, and he was a son of Adam.

So why was word of his presence not heard of? Why had all of the majesties stayed in ignorance of his presence?

Every Narnian who saw him would never speak again. It would be so difficult to do so through sewn lips and a dead body.

_Crunch._

He giggled at his jokes. Surely, if that stubborn badger had lived, he would have seen the humor in that. Surely.

Ah, what a lonely life when no one had such a magnificent sense of humor.

His pale, spindly fingers gripped the lapels of the wool coat tighter, not from cold but from anticipation, and his step increased to a jolly- if creepy- step. They bounced from heel to toe, lightly yet jerkily, as if pulled by a puppeteer's strings.

What was his plan, most asked? Well, first, he would have some fun. Yes. Let's start wih that.

Next, possibly, he would bring some destruction upon this beautiful landscape. But not too fast; it would just lose the charm all together. And then, what would be the point?

Yes. That was it. No point.

And oh, what fun.

_Crunch_.

He smiled, the skin crinkling like the frost underfoot, spreading like crow's feet around his eyes. But the gesture brought no warmth to the black eyes, nor did it bring any color to his sunken cheeks. For his hands, so pale and bony, had, in their actions, reminded him of a much more amusing piece of his work.

The red fetching, peeking out of his large pockets, crumpled as the frozen fibers were crushed by his fingertips, leaving a red trail flittering behind him as he walked steadily onward, out into the snowy expanse of wasteland.


	4. To Stay in One Place

**Chapter 3**

**Telmar Castle**

**Evening of the Summer Solstice**

Mr. Tumnis's promise to Lucy all those years ago, concerning the beauty of the summer in Narnia, was by no means a lie. He himself relished it greatly, claiming it to be one of the most enjoyable things he had ever known. Not only because of the stunning quality of the landscape, but the music, the dance, and, of course, one of the most revered days of the year: the Festival of the Summer Solstice.

"And then, oh, my king, you would have had to seen it yourself-he, he just fell right over. Right on top, and o'er to the other side! " the dwarf's sentence was cut short with his uproarious laughter, falling over into the plate of food before and trailing his already messy blonde beard into it. His cup of ale sloshed over his fingers and onto the table cloth, riddling the red fabric with countless other purple stains.

Caspian smiled widely at the dwarf, his dark eyes shining with suppressed laughter. But not at the story (for it didn't really make sense; the dwarf was drunk, after all) but at his antics. This smile was shared across the table with other reserved nobles, who, for various reasons, wished to remain in full control of their wits. Most of these were of Telmar upbringing, as the Narnians were no less wary of being drunk and happy as badgers were afraid of caves and dirt. Down the long wooden tables, lavishly spread with delights of all kinds, sat Narnians and the newly-adopted Telmarines alike, lining the edges with varying levels of mirth and fun, hesitancy and wariness.

Behind the low, long dais the tables were situated upon, the forest reached out to meet the tables, torches staked in the ground to light the paths for the dryads, nymphs, and hamadryads, who had already gathered and were dancing gaily to the flighty jigs presented by the fauns. Their instruments, consisting of multiple horn pipes, fiddles, bodhrans, and stag horns, glinted in the dreamy moonlight that flitted in beams around them, lighting seemingly both the music and the petals of the dryads in an unearthly glow.

Overall it was a stately affair, with the peals of laughter ringing through the air, the steady, easy murmur of conversation, and the jigs entwining their music and spirit around your soul. This who were not dancing were simply bobbing being their head up and down, regardless of their upbringing or conversations.

Caspian was in high demand with the ladies, both human and not, but he took it all in stride, prepared for the sudden increase in his social calendar. (After all, he is a king; he is expected to be rather busy, whether for a purpose or not.)

This did not make it any less overwhelming, however, as attention all focused around his stately form as he sat leisurely at the middle of the long table. His mocha brown hair glinted in the firelight, and his onyx eyes seemed to draw in all the remaining light (and, it seemed, all other eyes). The corded, tanned neck led down to a maroon colored tunic and brown breeches with knee-high leather boots. His crown, which was rarely seen on his person, rested on his head in all of it's stately glory.

Caspian turned to his left, accepting a goblet of spiced cider from a maid's fingers. He sipped leisurely, watching with observant eyes the throngs of people covering the courtyard. But one thought nagged at the back of his mind: that of Susan's arrows. Why was there one missing?

The festival was the perfect opportunity to pilfer from the palace, though weaponry wasn't a very common target. But nonetheless…

His deep gaze flitted between nobles, watching their every move. Flashed of gold, swishes of red, twirls of embroidery, the rounded, pale face of a pearl, painted eyelashes; there were so many details, it was overwhelming. Sparks floating above the fire pit. The rustle of the feathers on the crow's breast. The brush of the hair on a lady's neck. The warping of the light on a man's silk blouse. There was so much…

He shook his head resolutely and stared down into his glass, his reflection warping with the pattern of the ripples, and that depending on the beat of the music.

He shrugged inwardly. If he was here to enjoy the atmosphere, he might as well truly enjoy, instead of only playing the part. No harm had come yet, right? Aslan would protect them if need be.

A smile crooked his lips as he downed a swig of cider and jumped to his feet, grabbing the first lady that came by and starting a lovely reel that had the whole gathering spinning.

It was well into the night before the group had settled in to sleep, with fauns simply parked around the dwindling fire, dryads sinking contentedly back into their trees, and the remaining species traveling indoors or also taking up residence by the fire. Species of Narnians went every which way, stealing a spot wherever there was one to be found.

Caspian returned to his room in somewhat of a drunken state, or in that area between: not truly drunk, but enough to know that you've had enough (according to the amount of swooning and tripping he was currently doing.)

The golden backing of a chair rose to greet him much to fast as he placed a steadying hand on it, cursing his love of the Narnian wine and trying to remove his jerkin all at the same time. It was a tedious task that required more coordination than one originally assumed when sober.

He sighed as he finally made his way onto the sfot bed, his clothing officially removed, to be replaced with a more comfortable robe, and the Summer Solstice chaos- no matter how enjoyable- finally over.

His back was just about to make it onto the beautifully embroidered blanket when a sight, just noticeable out of the corner of his eye, made him jerk upright and throw his legs over the edge of the bed. Vertigo momentarily forgotten, he stumbled quickly over to the mantelpiece that held the treasured artifacts.

His face betrayed the utter shock and confusion as, even through the wine-sodden fog, he realized that he had, once again, been pilfered of his Susan's precious reminders.

There were now only fourteen arrows.

He slammed a fist on the counter as, his vision taking in the scene, noticed one small message carved into the smooth ivory of the quiver. It was in a rather scrawling motion, and deeply engraved as if the writer wanted the audience to know the utter intensity of the message. An odd, dark ink filled the lines and made it stand out agaist the creamy whiteness of the quiver.

_Run! Run as fast as you can, for you must just to stay in one place!_

Although he couldn't fathom the meaning, Caspian swore he could feel the cold chill of a watchful glance creeping up his spine. But upon spining, eyes wide in terror and hand strying to the derk that was no longer there, he saw nothing sans that slight breeze that rustled the draperies at his window.

_Run! Run!_

All his courage warned him not to. All of his honor.

But Caspian jerked a coat from the chair from whence it had been thrown and practically jumped out of the room. Whether from terror or fortitude, none would know, as the only look that sported his features after a reassuring breath was a look of fierce determination that had seen him through way more than just a message scrawled in his quarters.

Strong tendons tightened as he pushed off the door framed he had leaned against, and he straightened to his kingly height.

No man cowed King Caspian, or dared sully Susan's memorial.

Or they would have the whole of Narnia upon them.

* * *

**Next chapter is to be Susan, I hope. It should be, unless some random inspiration comes. :) Enjoy! **


End file.
